


Nightmares

by SilverSkiesAtMidnight



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Families of Choice, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Team Bonding, Team as Family, Telepathic Wanda Maximoff, all the emotional fallout that the MCU chooses to ignore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-02-04 05:23:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12764064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverSkiesAtMidnight/pseuds/SilverSkiesAtMidnight
Summary: When Wanda has nightmares,everyonehas nightmares.Luckily, the team finds a solution.





	1. Chapter 1

The rooms at the tower aren’t small. It _is_ a tower belonging to Tony Stark, after all, and Tony does not, has never, and will never do “small”. But they aren’t huge, and once night falls, they are quite dark. 

This is not ideal for Wanda. 

The first night she spends at the tower is three days after Sokovia. Those three days are mostly spent in cleanup, searching for the missing, getting medical attention to the wounded, trying to fix anything salvageable. 

There isn’t much.

There are a frankly horrifying number of missing and abandoned pets, Sokovia having had a rather ridiculous number of strays even when it was an actual city, and to the surprise of absolutely no one, Clint promptly makes it his mission to find all of them. He doesn’t succeed, despite a respectable attempt, but by the time they return to the tower, he has acquired a mournful and matted looking mutt that might be part Saint Bernard, also to the surprise of no one. 

On the second day, Natasha has a small black kitten tucked in one of her numerous pockets. No one besides Clint and Natasha know much about the kitten, as no one has seen more than a pair of fuzzy black ears and jade eyes. 

All of them throw themselves into generally less adorable endeavors, with very little gratitude from the people they try to help. It’s clear that the people of Sokovia don’t feel that their efforts to repair their mistake makes up for the destruction of their city. Wanda may be the least hated of all of them, being both a Sokovian native and not a recognizable superhero, and she makes good use of her powers, helping piece together homes that would otherwise have taken weeks to rebuild, and slipping inside the heads of people too injured or in shock to communicate. She also proves an excellent translator, giving her the privilege of understanding the many Russian curses thrown at the Avengers. 

Usually, the message gets across whether she translates or not.

The team stays busy, and none of them really sleep. They doze, curling up in shield issued cots when their limbs grow tired and their minds sluggish. But never deeply, and never for long.

Finally, they reach the point where SHIELD can handle the rest, and Fury decides that their tired group of superheroes is just getting in the way at this point. They board one of Tony’s jets to take them home. 

Wanda is halfway through the flight before she realizes she isn’t really sure where she is going, never having officially been invited to come to the tower with them. She finds it rather hard to care. If they decide to kick her out once they get there, so be it. She’s slept on the street before.

_Never alone,_ her mind whispers, and she buries the thought. 

The flight is mostly quiet, everyone caught in their own exhausted haze. Tony briefly tries to scold Clint for the ratty dog currently camped out at his feet, but Clint throws him a glare to rival Natasha, and Tony backs down with nothing but a weary declaration that Clint is the one taking care of it. He never even tries to scold Natasha for her cat, which is curled on her stomach, still mostly hidden in jacket. 

Wanda stays curled in her window seat the entire flight. Their arrival in Manhattan stirs her only slightly, the gleaming sight of Stark Tower visable through her window. No one else seems impressed, the sight familiar to them by now. 

They land at a little after three in the morning, and trek in through the tower’s rooftop doors. The others seem to know what to do, and make beeline for the lift.

Tony walks next to her. “I called Pepper, she’s already a room prepared for you. Pretty sure she said it was level six, though there’s a chance it’s level seven. If it’s got WWII memorabilia everywhere, it’s the Cap’s. I mean, feel free to camp out there if you want, he probably won’t mind.” 

Steve shuffles past them. “My room is level seven, and I don’t mind as long as I get to sleep.” 

“Good, so you’re set either way,” Tony continues. “If you need anything, just go ahead and ask Jar-” He cuts himself off, silent for second. “Right, scratch that. If you need anything, find someone who knows things and ask them.” 

Wanda isn’t sure how to respond, and by the time she’s realized she probably should anyway, they’re all in the elevator, and the moment to do so has long passed. 

Clint’s new dog pants happily, pressed against his leg.

They disembark one by one, to the sound of murmured good nights. First Tony, then Thor. Clint and Natasha get off at the same floor, Natasha’s jacket making funny growling noises at the dog padding next to them. Natasha murmurs something to it in Russian, the doors closing before Wanda can make out what. Steve and Wanda are the only ones left. 

Steve glances down at her, and shoots her a tired smile. “Seriously though, I’m right above you, so go ahead and stop by if you need anything.” She manages a thin smile in return. With a last, quiet “sleep well,” he steps off. 

From her spot in the elevator she can see that, yes, the Captain’s room looks like the Smithsonian hacked up a WWII themed hairball on it. She wonders if that is his taste or Tony’s, and suspects the latter. 

Then, the doors slide shut, and she is truly alone for the first time in days. 

As the elevator starts to move again, she wonders whether she actually has her own floor. It seems awfully generous for a man whose nightmares she pulled forth to psychologically torture him mere days ago, but she supposes he has enough to go around whether he likes her or not. 

There’s a quiet ‘ding’, and the doors open onto floor six. She steps out, and they close again behind her. For a minute, she simply stands where she is, looking around. It really is a whole floor, decorated in the same bland style as a hotel room. She sees a kitchen off through one hallway, and a living room with a huge flatscreen TV through another. 

Abruptly, every ounce of exhaustion that’s been building in her since the Avengers struck the Hydra base comes crashing down at once, and she sway where she stands. She stumbles down a hallway and prays to God that there’s a bedroom at the end. There is. She doesn’t even bother to take her shoes off, simply sinking down onto the soft, soft pillow. 

Her final thought before sleep claims her is:

_There’s too much space here for just one person._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what did you think? These chapters are probably going to be pretty short, but unless this really gets away from me I know where the story's going, so this should update pretty quickly! Also I think this is all canon compliant, but I might've forgotten something. 
> 
> Please for the love of god comment, I am in desperate need of validation.


	2. Chapter 2

_She is running down the street, ducking and weaving around people much taller than her. The sound of her shoes striking the sidewalk is loud in her ears, behind the thud-thud of her own heartbeat. Pietro is just ahead, she can see him, small and young, hair still dark brown as it was when they were children. She can almost grab his jacket, but he’s so much faster than she is, even now, and as soon as she reaches out to catch him he’s so far ahead she can only see glimpses of him through the crowd. She pushes harder, her legs pumping, shoving through the strangers on the sidewalk. She cries out in desperation._

_“Pietro!” **wait for me,** she tries to say, but he doesn’t hear her, or doesn’t listen, terror heavy in her throat. _

_Panic swells within her. She lunges again, and he’s closer now, she’s almost there, reaching out blindly for anything to grab onto -_

_It’s not Pietro looking at her anymore._

_Her knees strike metal floor, and she’s reaching, reaching, but the distance between them stretches too far, and she can’t get close enough._

_She’s not going to catch him, she’s going to be too late, he’s going to **fall,** and she screams again as he slips over the edge of the train, into the darkness that lies eternal below the tracks. _

_She lets go, and tumbles down after him._

_The blackness rises fast and thick around them, the cold air seeping into her skin, the force of her fall crushing her lungs and stealing her breath. Snowflakes are all around her, bright and glowing pinpricks of light that stretch forever into the black and empty space._

_Not snowflakes, she realizes. Stars. So many stars, infinite and distant, and she is so far from home._

_She’s going to die here, she knows. She’s going to die, the cold draining her, millions of miles away from all she has ever known, and she will be **nothing,** a speck of icy dust unseen by these strange stars that she does not recognize. _

_She is unseen. No one will notice her here, not until she wants them to._

_She is confident it, of shrouded by the darkness, watching and unwatched. She carries the terrible certainty that there is no one who will spot her, no one who will stop her, the knowledge as real and as heavy as the weight of the gun in her palm. She moves swiftly and silently down the hall, the glow of the living room just ahead, every strategy and potential move clear in her mind. She can hear her teammates laughing, and that’s good, it means they’re distracted, she can move fast before they can raise a defense. She’s in the living room, her hand raising, the Captain facing away from her, her finger on the trigger. A part of her snarls at her to stop, not to kill them, that they are her **friends,** but to stop now would be to fail the mission, and she was never made to fail, there are no **friends** in the red room, her handlers will not care, and so she cannot afford to either. _

_This is what she is._

_Her finger presses down, and the force of the shot jolts her, and then another, and another, the sound of bullets a rapid fire around her, even though she is no longer shooting._

_She is helpless, there’s nothing she can do, and she knows with an absolute and dreadful sinking feeling that this is **her** fault, she brought this down on them. _

_It’s not the captain dead before her, it’s Pietro, eyes empty and blood blooming across his torso in rich and vivid red. There’s red all around her, red blooming like poppies across the bodies of her wife, Laura’s hand reaching towards her, and her children, sprawled grisly and gory across her kitchen floor. She’s failed, she was supposed to **protect** them, and they’re dead because she couldn’t. _

_She’s failed, there was so much resting on her, and so much has been lost, burning around her, and she feels her father’s rage even as her people scream._

_She’s lead them to this, to war, her pride has gotten ahead of her again and she didn’t even realize until it was too late, golden towers crumbling to ash up above her, sobs tearing out of her throat, and it’s too **much,** too much, all the pain and fear compressing and coiling and it’s going to destroy her, the sheer **agony** of everything that is and shouldn’t be rushing out in a choked scream - _

She wakes with tears streaming down her cheeks, the strands of connection that she can feel reaching out dissolving instantly. She gasps, breathing shakily, sobs tearing from her without her consent. She covers her mouth to muffle the sound, even though no one can hear her, and curls up as small as she can. 

In the dark, the room feels vast and empty. She doesn’t fall back asleep. 

…

Her emotions flow away from her, slipping between her fingers like water once she’s awake, leaving her too raw to think, too numb to feel. She stays like that as long as she can, curled in her numbness beneath her blanket. 

The lights of the city glow and shift beyond her window, and she watches them with hazy disinterest. 

It’s not until the buildings are backlit by the soft dawn light that she is able to dredge up the courage to move. She rests her feet on the carpeted floor next to the bed, running a hand through her hair and wrinkling her nose as she realizes how long it has been since she’d had a proper shower.

“Good morning, Ms. Maximoff,” a female voice says smoothly. She jolts slightly, before she recognizes the voice as the same one that talks to Tony through his suits. 

“Hello,” she replies uneasily. “You’re… Friday, yes?”

“I am, Ms. Maximoff. I’m here to offer any information or assistance you may need. I hope you enjoyed your first night at the tower.”

“Please, call me Wanda.” She looks up, peering cautiously at the ceiling, as though she might find it staring back at her. “Are any of the others up yet?”

“Mr. Stark is in his workshop, Miss Romanoff is in her rooms, Mr. Rogers is in the gym, and Mr. Odinson and Mr. Barton are in the communal area.”

She lets out a slow breath. _Okay. Shower first._

“Friday?”

“Yes, Wanda?”

“Can you not tell the others I’m awake yet if they ask?”

“If that is your request, yes.”

“Thank you,” she replies softly. 

… 

Freshly clean and out of excuses to hide on her floor, she makes her way down to the communal area, stomach in a knot, but knowing it will be better if she can at least find something to eat before they kick her out. 

The elevator opens with a soft ‘ding’ into a large living room. It’s a pretty floor, of course. A huge flatscreen tv is embedded in one wall, a large couch and multiple beanbags and armchairs facing it. Beyond is a spacey dining area and kitchen, one sheer glass wall looking out over the city. Both Thor and Clint are seated at the kitchen table, Clint nursing a large mug of coffee, Thor devouring a plate full of eggs. The dog is lying across Clint’s feet, and when she comes in, it raises its head and whaps its tail against the floor in greeting. 

Thor shoots her a cheerful smile, though it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. 

Clint grunts what might be ‘good morning’, dark shadows under his eyes and hair sticking in strange directions.

She nods at them in careful greeting. She pads into the kitchen. No one stops her. She eyes the coffee briefly, then starts opening cupboards. She finds what she’s looking for, and sets a teabag on the counter, before filling the teapot waiting on the stove and turning on the flame. Out of things to do, she leans against the counter and resists the urge to fidget, not quite looking at either of the men at the table. Neither of them seem to notice her tension, Thor still eating his eggs, and Clint staring into his coffee like he's hoping it will show him how to time travel back to a time when he was still in bed.

The elevator dings as she waits for the water to boil. Steve steps out, wearing gym clothes stained with sweat. If she weren't looking, she might have thought he’d slept well, but his shoulders dip down like he’s got stones upon his back, and she _is_ looking. 

He smiles at her as he brushes past and she looks back at him, searching for any signs of anger, a realization slowly dawning in shades of wary hope when she finds none. 

_Maybe they don’t know what she did._

She pours her tea water as he goes to the refrigerator for milk, blocking the sight of her trembling hands from the others as best she can. 

The elevator dings again, and this time both Natasha and Tony step out. Tony makes a beeline for the coffee machine, while Natasha perches on the kitchen counter, positioning herself with a full view of the kitchen. 

Steve hands her a carton of orange juice as he passes her, carrying a jug of milk and a box of cereal. The gesture carries a sense of routine. She takes a swig directly from the bottle, and Tony scowls at her. 

“Really, Nat? _Really_?” 

She looks him dead in the eye, and tips the carton back again, expressionless. He rolls his eyes. 

“ _Animals_ , all of you,” he mutters as he fills a mug to the brim with black coffee. “So. Sleep well?” he asks, eyes fixed on the coffee he’s pouring. 

No one answers, and it takes Wanda a moment to realize he’s asking her. 

“It’s a lovely place. Thank you for allowing me to stay here,” she answers, voice neutral. 

His eyes flicker over to her, and then away again. “Hmph,” he responds.

“ _Tony_ ,” Steve chides. He looks at Wanda apologetically. “Don’t take it personally, I don’t think he slept well last night.” 

Tony mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “It’s a little personal,” and Steve flicks a piece of dry cereal at him hard enough to elicit a yelp. 

Thor interjects loudly before Tony can retaliate. “Ay, he is not the only one of us who slept poorly on our first night returned. I, too, found peaceful sleep evaded me,” his brow furrows as he speaks, and he pokes at his eggs with a fork. 

“Same, big guy,” Clint joins in, looking much more awake and aware. He glances around at all of them. “Look, these past couple weeks have been crap for all of us. If last night _wasn’t_ rough for anyone, one of these nights will be.” 

“He’s right. I’m not even slightly surprised we had some bad dreams last night,” Natasha says. Wanda’s eyes fly up, and meet Natasha’s even stare. She looks away again quickly, heart in her throat. 

Natasha stands smoothly, not looking at Wanda as she brushes past to pull a small bowl out of one of the other cupboards. She loops past the table on her way back to the elevator, plucking the jug of milk away from Steve as she does. She turns back as she reaches the doors, and catches Wanda’s eye again. This time, Wanda forces herself to stare back. 

_Go on. Say something. Protect your team._

Natasha looks at her coolly for a moment, then steps onto the elevator. 

“Get some rest, everyone. You all need it.” The doors close in front of her, and she’s gone. 

Clint stands and stretches, then blinks at the dog by his feet. “Oh, right. Hey Tony, got any dog food?”

“Yeah, I had someone drop off pet supplies for both of you to your floor this morning. When you go up, let Nat know we’ve got a debrief with Fury today at noon, okay? That goes for everyone. Don’t embarrass me, kiddos.” 

“Like you need us to do that,” Clint says, leading the dog to the elevator. 

Tony casually flips him the bird. Then, after topping off his mug of coffee, he follows. “I’ll be up in my workshop, so, you know, if anyone needs me, bug Friday or Steve instead.”

Once he’s left, Wanda moves over by Steve. “Ah, Captain?”

“You can call me Steve, Wanda, it’s okay.” 

“..Steve. What is a debrief?” 

“Oh, it’s nothing to worry about. We just go over what happened as a team, give Fury the full report.” He looks up from his cereal. “There’s...probably no need for you to go to this one. It’s pretty boring, and I don’t think there’s much you can add that one of us can’t fill in.” 

She hears the truth under the excuse. _We need to talk about what to do with you._

“Of course, ca- Steve.” She smiles, and hopes it looks agreeable. “I’m just going to head back up to my floor, then.” She nods a polite goodbye to him and Thor, and makes her exit. 

She doesn’t notice until she’s back on her floor that she forgot her tea. 

… 

She spends the next couple of hours thoroughly exploring every inch of her floor. The small kitchen has a few basic provisions, and she makes herself toast for breakfast. She wonders if she’s allowed to request a tea kettle, then decides against it. She only makes it fifteen minutes before the silence becomes unbearable, the lack of another human presence itching at her psyche in a way that makes her jumpy and anxious. 

“Friday, is there a radio here?” 

“Yes, Wanda. There is also a TV, if you would prefer.”

She frowns, looking around. She hadn’t seen a TV. 

“Can you… turn it on?” 

A blank section of wall a few feet away from her splits, the two halves moving smoothly apart to make way for a huge flat screen. It flicks on, turning to some sort of news channel, the volume low. 

She blinks at it in surprise. “Thanks, Friday.” 

“Yes, Wanda.”

Relaxed slightly by the background chatter of the news anchors, she continues her explorations. She’s pleasantly surprised to find that the bookshelves have been stocked with books in a mixture of English and Russian, and features several classics she’s never read. She wonders how Pepper found them on such short notice. 

_Money really is the best superpower,_ she thinks, not a little bitterly.

She’d already been in the bathroom that morning, but she takes the time now to categorize its contents. It, of course, is well-stocked with a variety of toiletries, including no less than three brands of toothpaste, and ten different scents of shampoo. 

She’s half tempted to dump them all down the drain just to be petty. 

Again, she decides against it. Besides, she doubts anyone would even notice, let alone care. 

She carefully does not pay attention to the time. Nevertheless, by the time she is carefully-not-noticing that it is twelve in the afternoon, she finds herself pacing the length of her floor, not even pretending to still be analyzing her surroundings. 

She forces herself to sit still on the couch in front of the TV, curling her legs underneath her, and tries to concentrate instead on the news. They’re talking about some celebrity she’s never heard of, and some scandal with drugs she doesn’t care about. 

The female anchor crinkles her nose, just slightly, every time her male counterpart starts talking. Wanda wonders if she doesn’t like him. He’s got a distinctly unlikable face, when you’re looking for reasons why someone might not like him. 

She tunes out their words, just watching for little motions between the two. He cuts her off mid-sentence three times. The nose wrinkle becomes more pronounced when he does that. He makes a funny little gesture with his hands each time he has to use her name, like he wants to point at her and say _See? See why she doesn’t belong on your screen? In your home?_

Wanda watches, their body language becoming a smooth, familiar dance, ‘till she can track exactly how each will react to the other. 

By the time they switch to commercial, her eyes are shut, her breathing rhythmic. Friday gently dims the lights, and turns down the volume till it’s nothing more than a soothing hum in the background of the quiet room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo! Chapter 2 is UP! Hell yeah! Go me. 
> 
> Also, slight error: I originally marked this as Natasha/Clint, but I'm changing course, and tags have changed to reflect that. 
> 
> Comments literally fuel my existence, so if you want to totally make my day, please feel free to leave some!! Opinions, suggestions, I don't even care man, I just want to know people are reading this. 
> 
> Thanks ya'll, stay tuned!


	3. Chapter 3

_She’s back in HYDRA’s lab, the tiny cell intimately familiar. Three of the four walls are blank metal, something stronger than steel._

_The fourth wall is a viewing glass. Only, this time it’s not a mirror on her side, but a dark, near-black fog. Vague shapes and figures shift and move in the fog, faces that form and dissipate before she can recognize them, twisting in inhuman rage and pain._

_She shrinks away from the glass, a powerful and bone-deep dread flooding through her, coating her tongue. It’s sickening and cloying, and she can barely breathe through it. She reaches for her brother’s mind, needing to feel him, needing to know he’s safe, only she no longer knows which wall separates her cell from his. She can’t find him, no matter which direction she focuses, panic building._

_It’s all the same. The ceiling, the floor, the walls all blend as she spins dizzily, a sound like terror clawing free of her throat. She staggers, reaching out to steady herself on the wall, only somehow the tiny room has twisted around her, and her hand plunges straight into the terrible fog._

_It clings to her wrist, squeezing, tugging, dragging her forwards to join the warped creatures on the other side. She feels their emotions tangling with hers, alarm and confusion and images of her struggling, seen from their perspective, as her mind (her **soul** ) her very essence threatens to meld and dissolve in the force that’s trying to take her. _

_She pushes at it as hard as she can, trying desperately to break free, but the cool darkness merely traps her other hand as well. Blindly, she gathers up her power and **shoves**._

_Pain snaps through her and the Thing alike, crackling energy that she feels in a body not her own, and it releases her._

_She presses herself to one of the solid walls, shaking. The fog swirls restlessly, disturbed, and, to her horror, calls out to her._

_“Ms. Maximoff,” it snarls, in a voice guttural and distorted. “Ms. Maximoff!”_

_She sobs, gasps out a whispered, “Leave me alone.” Something takes shape in the middle, building and stretching towards her, taking the form of fingers that reach and reach and reach._

_“I said, leave me **alone**!” Scarlet sparks fire-bright around her palms. _

_“Ms. Maximoff, you must wake UP.”_

She snaps to consciousness, heart thudding painfully fast in her chest, and her sight blurred with sweat and tears. She blinks frantically to clear it.

The first thing she sees is Vision, kneeling before her, one hand extended as though to grab her again, red light bringing his wary features into bloody, sharp relief. 

It takes her a moment to realize she’s the source. 

She takes a shaky breath, then another, eyes fixed on Vision. He slowly lowers his hand, as she draws her power back in, till the only light is muted and pale. 

“Do you know where you are?” he inquires gently. 

She doesn’t answer immediately, taking the time to catalogue her surroundings. Her back is pressed against the front of the couch, not a wall. The TV is off, and the sunlight that had earlier poured in is gone, the windows a smooth, pitch black. She looks away from them quickly. 

“Is it night?” she croaks.

Eyes still fixed on her, Vision lifts his voice slightly. 

“Friday, please return windows to standard opacity.”

Instantly, the glass is clear again, and the sunlight streams through, the sun’s position only slightly further West than when she fell asleep. Her eyes linger on the bright panes for a beat before she looks away once more. She clears her throat before trying to speak again. 

“What time is it?”

“12:47,” he answers easily. He sits back a bit, giving her some space, as she pulls herself to her feet. He rises to join her, and she glares at him. 

“Why were you in my room?” She snaps.

He tilts his head slightly, the motion nearly human. “You appeared distressed.”

“That’s why you woke me, but why were you here to begin with?” He hasn’t blinked the whole time they’ve been speaking. She steps back towards the kitchen unconsciously. 

Luckily, he doesn’t try to follow. “I apologize for disturbing you. I accompanied Mr. Fury back from Sokovia, as he was evidently uncomfortable leaving me to aid in the recovery efforts unmonitored. He and the Avengers are in a meeting at the moment, and as it was not requested that I attend, I thought perhaps I might...check on you. When Friday told me you were asleep, I meant to simply wait here until you woke up.”

She stops short. “‘Wait here until I woke up?’” she says incredulously. 

“As I said, I didn’t intend to wake you,” he replies, apologetic. 

“You can’t just come in to people’s rooms while they’re asleep like that. It’s not...not..” _safe_ “...polite.” 

He cocks his head, still watching her with those focused, unblinking eyes. “I will be sure to remember that in the future.” 

She huffs, waving a hand in a short, aborted gesture. She moves the rest of the way into the kitchen, and begins opening cupboards, pulling out pots and pans indiscriminately, never fully turning her back on him. 

“So,” if her voice is sharper than strictly necessary, she does not care. “They didn’t invite you to the meeting either.”

He takes this as permission to move from his spot in front of the couch, gliding silently _(and, eerie as he may be, she is grateful that he does not sound like a machine)_ into the entrance of the kitchen to observe. 

“I would assume they wanted privacy to discuss how to proceed with regards to the pair of us,” he responds, as simply as if he had said that the sky was blue. 

Wanda snorts. “And that doesn’t worry you?” 

“Is it supposed to?” he asks, sounding genuinely curious. 

“Most people do worry about their futures, yes.” She pulls out a bag of rice, plunking it down on the counter and beginning to root through the fridge, still angled to keep him in her line of sight. 

His brow creases slightly, considering. “My immediate future is easily predictable. The team and SHIELD will undoubtedly decide that the strategic thing to do is to keep me as an ally. As I have already been seen by the public in Sokovia, I expect they will choose to announce me as an official Avenger, rather than try to conceal my presence. There are no likely outcomes that I find concerning.” He says calmly. 

“Well, perhaps some of us are not lucky enough to be so confident in what’s to come,” she mutters, forcefully chopping a bunch of spinach. 

“You fear they will not allow you to stay.” It’s not a question. 

“They shouldn’t.” 

“They will.” 

She slams the knife down and spins to face him directly. “And how can you know that?” 

He regards her steadily, his expression unreadable. 

“Because everyone in this tower is here because at some point in time, someone gave them what was debatably an ill-advised chance, and they took it.” 

He looks her dead in the eye, and she finds herself unable to look away. “They are not the type of people to forget the circumstances they come from. And neither are you.” 

For the next minute, they stand in silence. She scrutinizes him, studying him, trying to pick out the slightest tell that might indicate he was lying. It’s long enough to be awkward, but he doesn’t seem to mind, waiting quietly for her to make the next move. 

At long last, she lets out a shaky breath, turning back to the spinach, and resumes slicing it, with far less vengeance this time.

“Did I hurt you?” she asks quietly, not looking at him. “When I was dreaming?”

“Yes,” he answers simply. “But I do not hold it against you. You didn’t intend to.”

She appreciates his bluntness more than she wants to admit. “Nevertheless, I did, and I’m sorry.”

“I accept your apology.” 

She shoots him a tiny smile in answer. He returns it, the expression somehow clumsy, like he’s never tried to make it before. 

Which, she supposes, is probably true. She snorts softly at the attempt, turning her back to him and returning to cooking. 

She makes him sit down, eventually, having to explain to him that it makes people uncomfortable when you stand and stare them. He accepts this with only mild doubt. 

They’re quiet after this. He silently keeps her company from the stool she made him sit on, and she allows the act of cooking to steady her, soothing her frayed nerves. 

The next time she breaks the silence, she asks, “I don’t suppose you eat, do you?”

“I don’t need to, but I am capable of doing so.” 

“Here then, taste this,” she offers him a spoonful of rice and vegetables. 

He gingerly accepts it, glancing at her uncertainly before putting it in his mouth. She watches him expectantly as he seems to consider it, eyes widening slightly in surprise. “It is...most enjoyable,” he says, sounding slightly awed. 

“So...good then?” She asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“I have no basis on which to compare,” he admits. 

“What, no one’s given you food yet?” she says, faintly indignant on his behalf. 

“Like I said, I do not need it,” he says in the most dignified _duh_ voice she’s ever heard. 

“Tsk,” she scoffs. “They forget you’re a person on top of being…” _a machine_ “...whatever it is you are. They should be giving you all sorts of new thing to try.”

He looks at her, an odd expression on his face. He opens his mouth to speak, but Friday’s voice cuts in smoothly before he can. 

“The Avengers have concluded their meeting. Mr. Stark would like to request that the Vision comes to speak with him at your earliest convenience.”

Vision looks at Wanda, hesitating. 

She forces a smile. “Best not to keep him waiting.” 

He doesn’t move. She flicks a hand at him. “Go on, I’ll be fine here.” 

He looks uncertain, but rises from the stool. “Would it be acceptable for me to return later?”

She pokes a fork at him. “Knock this time.”

He dips his head, looking appropriately abashed, and waves a cautious goodbye. “Until later, then.”

Before she can wave back, he sinks through the floor and disappears, and she is alone in the apartment once again. 

She stands still for a minute, letting herself breathe, both relieved and faintly disappointed by the solitude. She sighs, feeling her earlier weariness seeping back in. Flexing her shoulders to rid herself of the tension that has gathered there, she turns back to the stove, scooping the cooling rice onto a plate. She’s not particularly hungry, but she’s not in the habit of letting food go to waste. 

The back of her neck prickles. She turns quickly, scanning. 

At first glance she’s alone. 

At second, there’s a lithe, shadowed figure just beyond the border of the kitchen. 

“Hello, Wanda,” Natasha says coolly. “I think we need to talk, don’t you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took me so long, and sorry it's both short and ends on a cliffhanger!! I'm partially done with the next chapter already, so it shouldn't take too long. I'd love to hear what you guys think! Comments? Criticisms? Things you'd like to see? Feedback feeds my soul, my dudes. Also, anyone interested in being a beta reader should hmu on Tumblr, because I don't have one and I have no fucking way of judging my own work. Have a good day everyone!!


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